To find your heart
by Anloquen
Summary: Pre, during and post-movie. The story focuses on Tus, his difficult relationship with his father and his emotional disfunctionality. Slash warning, though it is certainly not the main motif. Please review, it means a lot to me. Disclaimer: I don't own characters, idea, parts of the plot or anything and I do not hope to ever make any money out of my writing
1. Chapter 1

He did not really get to know Dastan as a kid. When the youngest brother was brought to the palace, Tus was already far over the age of reason and spent his days with tutors, spiritual leaders and veterans, not the guardians who passed basic knowledge and combat skills onto boy princes. Later, when Dastan turned 15 and began his serious education, Tus was already a man spending his time with his father, noble guests, ambassadors and generals.

Tus often traveled, but even when he stayed in Nasaf whole weeks passed without him meeting his adoptive brother except for the meals, when the youngest family member was never asked to speak much.

Garsiv's stages of upbringing overlapped with those of Dastan. When the middle prince joined the rank of men and started to share their everyday duties he often said he didn't miss this cheeky rascal and didn't look forward to Dastan's coming of age.

As the day was getting closer, Tus was getting more and more curious about his brother who was about to join the counsel and share every perk and inconvenience of a warrior's life.

...

The evening was drawing near and Tus welcomed it with relief. His private walk with father could not be long due to the late hour. He wanted it to end as quick as possible.

"What do you think of Dastan?" Sharaman asked. Tus was alarmed. He gave up answering sincerely to this kind of questions long before and he knew how hard it could be to figure out what opinion the king expected.

"I hardly know him, father."

"That's a shame." Sharaman shook his head slowly.

Tus winced on the inside with both resentment and regret. He gave no answer and father still managed to implicate it was wrong. He felt a few drops of cold sweat form on the back of his neck.

"Do you know that he looks up to you?"

_Do not spoil him by giving him bad example_ was the message Tus couldn't help recieving.

"Then I will cherish the knowledge and take it into consideration regarding my actions in his presence."

Sharaman noded slightly, then stopped, looked at his eldest son and noded once again.

"I brought him to our family because I felt it would make it complete" the king explained and resumed his walk. "You have the prudence, Garsiv has the nerve, but none of you has the judgment of what is right". Sharaman sighed. "If I could combine you three into one person, that person would make a _great _king".

Tus sighed as well, feeling that a stiff, bitter knot was forming in his throat. Hearing that he was one third of a _decent_ king was not something that would make the following night easy for him.

...

On one lazy summer day he simply decided to join his brother in his martial drill. He headed to the yard where he knew Dastan was practicing with his friend, Bis.

What he saw stunned him. Dastan trained without any protection, barely even dressed, bare-footed and bare-chested, wearing just black, loose cotton trousers tied to his calfs with red and golden selvage. His moves were crazily unpredictable and lightning-quick. Tus soon realized that Bis's job was only to maintain position and protect a white stone at his feet that Dastan was trying to snatch with his bare hands, while Bis was armed with a stick. Despite the odds, Bis stood no opponent against his friend and clearly had no intention to even try to defeat him. Just protect the stone.

After one of many futile attacks Dastan ran past Bis and into a wall, made two steps up the wall and pushed himself from it to descend at Bis and use his weight to pin his opponent to the ground. While Tus's eyes opened wide in surprise and awe, the curly-haired youth seemed rather annoyed by the stunt and perfectly familiar with it. Bis got even more annoyed when Dastan, still lying on him showed him the stone he held in his hand, grinning enchantingly. He poked Bis's nose and whispered "Again" before he got up.

"Perhaps you will let my try, little brother?"

Dastan turned to Tus, welcomed him with a wide smile and opened arms. His whole figure smiled and eradiated friendliness.

"Brother!" He exclaimed. "Please, come!"

Embarrassment made Bis's struggle to stand up quite clumsy, but he smiled too when bowing before his future king. Unexpectedly Tus felt wanted and embraced and the goodness of the feeling puzzled him.

"Do you think you could show me some of your tricks?" he asked, already disrobing and unbuckling his swordbelt before he could really think whether it was a good idea.

"I'll get some wine" Bis proposed and welcomed Dastan's nod with relief. He vanished like smoke. Young prince looked at his brother a bit confused, but still with a spark of glee in his eyes. He scratched the back of his head, looked at the ground and then at Tus again. He beamed a simple joy of life and of young, healthy manhood.

"Forgive me, my prince, but I am afraid it is something one would have to learn from his earliest years" he said with no sign of abashment. Tus could but like the man who was panting, dripping with sweat and smiled all the time.

"Your brother is too old, you say?" Tus laughed. "Just don't go too easy on me"

"Oh, I won't" Dastan tilted his head and a few moments later Tus found himself on his back, covered in dust and under the whole weight of Dastan's surprisingly firm body. He didn't have to be shown the white stone to know he had lost.

He kept loosing, laughing, fooling around and chating with Dastan for the rest of the day and the thrilling sensation of being free, wanted and not judged soon became one of his most cherished memories.

Later that afternoon, when they sat on fresh grass underneath a palm tree breathing heavily and trying to wipe their sweaty and dirty necks with their even more sweaty and dirty hands Tus noticed that Dastan was a little bit distracted.

It took Tus some time to figure out what was dragging his brother's attention. The youngest prince glanced at the neat pile of his clothes resting on the grass next to a messy heap of the Crown Prince's robes. Oddly Dastan had decided to let his deep blue velvet, silk embroidered jacket lay directly on the grass and placed his perfectly white cotton shirt on top of the pile. A dry leaf has fallen onto it, so Dastan carefully removed it after wiping his fingertips in clean grass and the in a shawl that was laying nearby.

"You really try to keep your sadreh clean" Tus spoke, a bit absent-mindedly.

Dastan hesitated for a while before answering. He looked straight into his brother's eyes with almost unbearable openness that carried a vague hint of something much, much more important that talking about robes.

"I know it might be silly" he said. "After all symbols are just symbols. The values we attribute to them come from our souls, so they stay pure no matter happens to their physical counterparts."

Dastan petrified for a brief moment and then laughed, lowered his gaze and run his fingers through his hair.

"I didn't realize I could sound so sophisticated. " He nodded with a shy smile and looked into Tus's eyes again. "Yes. Somehow I just feel I must keep my sadreh clean."

...

When there was enough time, they liked to talk walking; or at least Tus liked it and was grateful that his father had nothing against.

Walking around palace and gardens gave him a perfect pretext not to look in king's eyes, which he still found difficult and confusing. There was always something around to admire.

He listened carefully to Sharaman's military and political instructions as well as to some personal details concerning possible allies and foes that should not be heard by all. He hoped the conversation would end with this, but suddenly his father stopped and turned to face him.

"This time I feel that much will change with this war" Sharaman said solemnly. "and I want you to pay close attention to everything that happens."

He gave his son a hard, sombre look Tus could barely withstand and continued his walk.

"There is much you have to learn, Tus. With every passing day I grow less certain if you will ever learn it. You have wise tutors and faithful counsel, but you do not own yourself..."

Tus felt convulsion in his gut, a struggle between terror and anger. Both feelings were as cold as ice, but one was sharp and the other dull. Fear won. Tus continued his steady, well studied, regular pace, keeping his face perfectly emotionless.

"A true king considers the advice of his counsel, but always listens to his heart..." Sharaman stopped again and glanced at his son with contempt. "but where is your heart you could listen to, Tus?"


	2. Chapter 2

He jolted, astonished by how closely his uncle's voice resembled Sharaman's voice. When Nizam spoke standing behind his back Tus could swear it was his father's specter that came this far to haunt him. Cold, dull fear coiled in his gut and myriads of little, iron bugs crawled up his spine, drilling into his skin and muscles. He felt helpless and empty. Unable to take this oppressive presence behind his neck he stood up nervously and paced across the tent to think in peace for at least a while. The sky was a neverending chasm of emptiness interwoven with stars' silver light. It made him feel small, but at least his problems were small as well. He longed to melt into this emptiness, become one with dark nothingness.

Loud clank drew his attention back to Nizam, staring back at him expectantly and scornfully. There was no escape.

"We attack at dawn" he surrendered.

"Well if that's your decision then let me go in first".

Of course Dastan would ask, but what surprised Tus was that he seemed concerned and sad in sharp contrast to Garsiv's sheer thirst for battle and honor. The middle prince even had enough insolence to laugh.

"Force to share, Garsiv!" he tried to remind him and restore order, but his voice was too faint.

"I ride ahead of the Persian army, Dastan leads a company of street rabble!" Garsiv spat these words right into Dastan's face. A thing he would have never dared to do in the presence of their father.

"They may not be much for manners, but they're pretty handy in a fight". The Crown Prince was amazed by how the youngest and least respected of them managed to remain calm and on topic.

"The honor of first blood should be mine!" Garsiv strode proudly, chest first, chin up.

"Garsiv, your hand is on your sword again." Dastan reminded calmly. Tus started to believe that perhaps this was indeed the right strategy to deal with their hot-tempered brother.

"Where it should be!"

Air in the tent got thick and burnt his eyes, nostrils, lungs, skin... He felt that withy every beat his heart ejected a portion of mercury into his veins instead of blood. Everything was out of control. A quicksand formed beneath his feet, right where he believed to be safe a moment before. He desperately reached for his last mean of defense. Tomfoolery.

"My brothers!" He exclaimed. "Ever eager!"

A few laughs sounded. Garsiv relaxed his shoulders and Dastan looked at Tus again. It worked.

"It is said that the princess of Alamut is a beauty without equal" he babbled the first rubbish that came to his mind just to keep the atmosphere from getting so tense again. "We'll march into her palace and see for ourselves".

Garsiv was pacified. His outbursts never lasted long. There was but another thing to be dealt with.

He walked towards Dastan and gently pulled his wrist, instructing him to follow and face him.

"There'll be no doubt in your courage, Dastan" He said and suddenly somehow felt smaller and shorter than Dastan.

His younger brother gave him a pensive glance. For a brief moment Tus completely broke down. Getting one of his brothers gravely offended and the other killed would certainly please his father. He looked deep into Dastan's eyes, pleading. "but you're not ready for this"

He felt slow heartbeat underneath cool, velvet skin when he softly placed his hand on his brother's chest. Dastan seemed calm and Tus knew too well that in a dodger like him such tranquility could only mean one thing. Dastan already knew what he was going to do. Tus was not even shure if he saw a hint of apology in Dastan's eyes.

Enough was enough. He gave up.

"Garsiv's cavalry will lead the way" Tus informed sharply and stormed out of the tent.

_You are not ready for this_

What a nonsense. Dastan was always ready for everything, because he always carried everything he needed within himself.

No, Dastan was an inexhaustible well of resources. It was Tus who was not ready for _this_, whatever _this _was.

...

With one final effort he emerged from thick tar and opened his eyes. His bones were still soft and his head was filled with swirling sticky liquid, but at least this frantic pageant of faces, situations and shreds of words had ended.

He saw white marble floor beside his bed in the moon's blue light that soaked the room. A big window was flanked by fancy pillars. He recognized his chamber in Alamut, even though it could be another part of his dream.

These were not exactly nightmares. Ludicrous mixture of memories, visions and ideas was not coherent enough to make him feel anything. It was simply exhausting, as it began whirling around him before he even could fall fast asleep. The awareness that these vivid images were part of his dreams when he was still half awake enhanced their absurdity.

Nonetheless he woke up weakened, agitated and covered in thick, cold sweat.

"When was the last time you slept well?" He heard Dastan's voice and at first he thought it was just another silly vision.

"Months ago" he answered and was glad to hear his own voice at the same level of reality.

A heavy, wide, warm palm rested on his temple.

"Perhaps you need company, big brother".

Tus snorted, still not looking at his guest.

"The Crown Prince of Persia, the future head of the Empire, the Slayer of the Serpent dandled by his little brother?"

"By the Lion of Persia" Dastan reminded playfully and even though Tus didn't see his face, he could recognize that serene, warm, unearthly smile in his voice. "Tus... A lonely man carries his own whole world on his shoulders, but when he decides to share it with another lonely man, the worlds can merge into one and the burden grows less".

The Crown Prince finally turned around and looked at Dastan. Young prince was sitting on Tus's bed with one ankle on his thigh, like those peaceful gods in bronze figurines or on colorful scrolls the royal family was often given by their eastern allies. His snow white sadreh almost glowed in the moonlight. Tus' nearly let him self drown in the placid gaze of Dastan's big, blue eyes.

"I killed my uncle, brother. I slaughtered him with my own hands."

"Was it not what your heart told you?"

Tus expected this. He had asked himself the very same question several times before. He desperately searched for a slightest touch of anything different that the cold, whirling emptiness of confusion he felt in his chest, but there was nothing. His skin was just a bronze, empty shell. He vaguely remembered that pulsating heat that enlivened his heart for that very moment when he felt the hilt of his sword in his hand and his own power to save Dastan's life, but it was just a memory so distant he wouldn't even swear it had really happened to him.

"I don't know."

Dastan sighed. He placed his palm flat on Tus's chest and pressed it gently. It felt warm and safe and good.

"The latest unrest here can be dealt with by Tamina, I trust her now. I am moving for Koshkhan with you. You will need me more than Alamut."


	3. Chapter 3

Tus hated battles within cities, especially ones like Koshkhan, with it's southern, primitive and counterlogical architecture. Narrow, bent and steep streets of this highland beehive were exactly the kind of place where a single mistake or hesitation (or even being unable to magically foresee the further arrangement of the passages) could result in a disaster. A simple miscommunication with his cavalry and a momentary disarray when his horse was startled by a fire threw him into a wide, steep lane he has not expected in a place such as this.

A low whiz, sting of pain in his thigh and his steed's hoarse squeal came simultaneously. The animal jerked, tossing Tus off the saddle and run a few incoherent steps, only to die a few reeds further with a bolt in it's neck, kicking the gravel in agony.

Tus looked up and saw that shutters were repealed on two windows of a building facing his trap. He was lying down, but on a slope that exposed him as a perfect aim. The animal's wide body would make a good shelter, Tus tried to move towards it, but couldn't. It was not about the pain, he could withstand it, but his leg simply wouldn't move. He started to slide down on his hands and realised he wouldn't make it. He knew too well how long it takes to stretch a crossbow.

He was prepared to close his eyes and devote his soul in the rite of armaiti when he saw a blurred brown and black shape descend from a rooftop near. A man landed almost at his side with a thump and used the impact to slide down on the gravel to fall onto his commander. The man positioned himself on top of Tus in haste - chest to chest, hip to hip and crossed his arms over Tus's head. Just in time.

The low whiz, a twitch of pain in the body covering Tus. Another whiz, another spasm and Dastan's growl.

Following moments dilated in the Crown Prince's memory into a neverending torture of feeling warm blood sinking into his clothes and dripping down his own, intact chest, hearing Dastan's choked groan and feeling the dearest body quake and gag, and fighting his own inertness - both of mind and body. It could not have lasted long, as the next assault found Tus surrounded by his soldiers equipped with good shields and there was no fourth shot - scorers fell from their windows almost sliced into pieces after a short skirmish in the tower. But Tus could never stop wondering... And he didn't want to know the answer.

...

His mind kept telling him that everything happened as it should have happened - the Crown Prince was in danger of premature death. The man that was nearest and could get to him quickest did what he had to to protect future king, the warrantor of the integrity of the Empire, token of peace and prosperity to the people.

Tus opened his eyes. They felt like the fine desert sand has gotten underneath his eyelids. His whole body was weak and sore, not because of the wound but because of the fear that clasped his gut and made his spine feel like a cold, iron column. He had not eaten in three days, as the sight of food made him nauseous. His palms and feet were ice-cold and constantly trembled even though he was doing his best to stop it.

Garsiv's nervous pace alarmed him. The younger prince kept walking back and forth across the room, with his hands crossed behind his back and squeezed Tus's tasbeeh angrily in his fist.

"Why are you not with Dastan?" Tus uttered these words in haste, trying to make it before the awareness of his own misgivings fully reached him and clogged his throat with thorny iron mesh. He was not ready to hear that the ritual vigil for the dying was over; that Dastan died when Tus was ruminating with his eyes closed, pretending to sleep.

Garsiv tilted his head and threw his brother a bitter look, a strange mixture of reproach and apology. Tus knew this look. Garsiv must have taken his words for a reprimend.

"I can't... " The prince began with his jaws clenched, trying to tame tears that filled his eyes from spilling onto his cheeks. "I can't take it. He is delirious all the time..."

The middle prince was the most valiant of them all, always eager to draw blood and ready to spill his own, more fond of steel, horses and dusty battlefield than gold, women and scented chambers. He suffered wounds and saw his men suffer and fall. A sight that made his eyes fill up with tears must have been dreadful.

"Bis is with him. It will suffice." Garsiv added after a moment in a rough, emotionless manner. Tus smiled sadly. The middle prince always used this kind of distraction when he felt he had lost his poise of a tough warrior for a moment. He didn't realize that his face was an open book for everyone around him to read anyway.

A noble and unselfish man he was. Quick-tempered and unpredictable, yes, but the young prince could afford to be so. Only military decisions rested within his command, so he did not need the prudence required in politics, but Tus knew his younger brother was ready and able to develop it within himself in time and in need.

Garsiv's attitude towards Dastan was the best proof of the goodnes of his heart. They wrangled, competed, teased each other and the middle prince would never address his younger brother otherwise than "this worthless rascal", but if anything (other than himself) threatened his little brother Garsiv would not hesitate to challenge the whole world. Now that Dastan was on the verge of death and Tus was devastated and inert, Garsiv was the only one to truly control the situation in Koshkhan and attempt to restore order. Despite his frustration that covered him like a storm cloud he managed to do well.

Tus and Garsiv were both brought up in the same manner, taught exactly the same ancient wisdom, received the same political, ethical and intellectual schooling. The middle prince also had his private conversations with father and took them far better than Tus. Yes. Garsiv would make a good king.

Moreover, if Tus was to put any faith in the legitimacy and reasonableness of his future reign he had to strongly believe that the Empire was steady enough to endure a single man's death, even if it was the King's eldest son.

He also supposed that even if the faith of the nation put in the king's hands already made him someone exceptional, a good king would do his best to earn this honor everyday anew; and a king that allows his brother to die for him and does nothing, safely shielded by the trembling, bleeding body is not a king worth any trouble.

Finally, he felt in his heart that Dastan was not trying to protect the Crown Prince, but his brother. Tus had a hunch that Dastan's bizarre morals of a thoroughly good street rogue rose high above such trifles as dynasty, kingdom and position. He probably didn't even spare a single thought for possible consequences. Dastan often acted on a whim and was then caught off guard by the outcome. He always simply _did _things. And if it was a thing he did for love, it was love Tus didn't feel worthy of.


	4. Chapter 4

"Will you play nard with me, brother?" Dastan asked, leaning against a yellow sandstone pillar in Tus's chamber in the newly subjected city. As usually he had appeared out of nowhere.

The annoying thing was that Dastan was well enough to wander the stronghold, but still sore and testy because of pain and fever while the Crown Prince felt almost well physically and mentally, but couldn't walk more than a few reeds. He had noticed that the young prince sought his company eagerly for some reason and at first he thought it was because Dastan simply grew needy as young people troubled with illness or wounds often do. He thought so until the moment Bis and Garsiv told him about all Dastan's feverish delusions and phantoms that called for him from the other side and about Dastan's first conscious question he asked as soon as he had finally won the struggle for his life.

_"He made me swear in the name of Asha Vahishta that you were not in danger and would be well soon, so you better not make a liar out of me" said Garsiv on that very day, smiling through tears. "To be true, he was also quite surprised that I was all right and asked about father, which is even more strange, as he knows father is not in this cursed demon's den_".

Garsiv was right. Many days passed from that feral raid to the last riot in the city. Even protected by their guards and thick walls of the stronghold that was purged of enemies, the princes could not feel absolutely safe. Being watched over by his little brother, who had just escaped death was more than Tus could take.

"Today you would triumph. My mind is troubled with dark thoughts" he answered, not looking at Dastan.

The young prince sat at his side.

"I heard orders arrived from father. I believe he added a more personal note for his eldest son. Is it what troubles you?"

Tus nodded. He didn't need to acknowledge Dastan's perspicacity, as the prince merely stated the obvious. Both younger brothers knew that every private conversation between the eldest and their father ended in Tus' being at least upset. After years of hardly meeting his father's expectations, hearing that he did _satisfactory _when he had pushed the limits and knowing that whatever he ever does, he will never be better than _almost adequate_ the Crown Prince grew so used to this overwhelming burden that even a short note from his father could knock him off balance.

"He doesn't blame me for what happened." Tus felt a sudden chill down his spine at the memory. Before long, however, it perished among the trembling ravel of icy iron threads tangled inside his whole body. He did not understand father's forbearance and it was bringing him to the verge of hysteria. Bitter reprimends and stinging remarks would have made him feel devastated, but safe among something he knew. Having father accept the fact that Dastan was willing to sacrifice his life for his unworthy, _satisfactory_, _almost adequate_ brother disturbed him.

"Blame you for what? The assault? " Dastan seemed sincerely disoriented. "We all knew it was risky, but we agreed that there was no point in trying to exhaust Koshkhan with a siege with no knowledge about their resources."

Tus covered his face in his palms. Why was Dastan making it so _difficult_?

"No, not for the raid." He strained his throat to utter these words. "For almost having you killed in my defense."

"There is no fault in that." Dastan tilted his head and pierced his brother with an interrogative, troubled gaze. "And by the way I need far more than this to get killed." He added conciliatory when he saw his words were not taken well by Tus.

Even though he hadn't seen it, he had eard Garsiv's stories and Dastan's screams. He remembered nothing but terror, cold and nausea from that days.

"Nobody gave us any hope. On one night it came to this, that a healer asked Garsiv for permission to give you poison to end your agony."

To Tus' bewilderment, Dastan laughed light-heartedly.

"I guess our brother beat the soul out of that man."

In all his weariness and perplexity Tus barely found the strength to give Dastan a faint smile.

"You see, Garsiv often acts on a whim and he has no problem with knowing his own heart" Dastan continued merrily. He placed his hand on Tus's thigh, as he often did when he intended to say something amusing. "And what the healers didn't know is that I don't rot so easily. My blood is spiked with herbs and spices from the streets of Nasaf." He smiled as if he expected Tus to laugh at his joke, but not this time.

_Dastan's blood was all over him, glued his shirt to his skin and drenched his hair, made him remember the smell of it for days. A few drops fell into his mouth as his soldiers were lifting unconscious Dastan from that damned gravel. It was sweet and salty and tasted like iron and like Dastan. _

"I have seen enough of your blood".

Solid, chilly, oppressive silence filled the room. It was broken by Dastan's sigh.

"I am tired, brother. I will leave you now." he said getting up without waiting for Tus's response. The Crown Prince stared at his brother slowly but proudly walk out. When Dastan reached the door, he turned around and gave Tus a long, sad look.

"I pray one day you will accept it" He said and left, leaving Tus wrecked.


	5. Chapter 5

"Please, brother. Talk to me. Tell me."

Tus stopped, but didn't turn around. He knew too well what look he would see on Dastan's face and that it would completely ruin his barely acquired peace of mind.

"Dastan..."

He ran his palm down his face and sighed. His little brother was standing right behind him and Tus knew Dastan was looking at him with compassion and helplessness. It was his brother... Ever eager... This craving to have everything straightened and settled had to be satisfied. Dastan felt perfect in labyrinths of clay and stone, but completely lost in labyrinths of understatements and conjecture. Tus turned around.

Stealthy caress of his fingertips on Dastan's wrist when he led him somewhere by the hand or placing his hand on the back of Dastan's neck when they spoke or even touching Dastan's collarbone with the back of his palm were something that could pass unnoticed. A certain level of physical intimacy developed among men who practiced matrial skills, faced death and got obscenely plastered way too often together. Tus noticed it only in contrast to the strict, frigid behavior of merchants or priests, men whose blood never boiled.

Along with neverending nights of careless chats or meaningful discussions it was what he craved to find shreds of comfort, though at the same tame it made him feel like a thief or sacrilegist. Torn between now much he needed Dastan an how he felt he was decieving the man who _looked up to him_ Tus simply wanted to run away. And Dastan wouldn't let him...

"Come" This time Tus didn't take Dastan's hand in his as he had done so often. "Let us talk in the terrace. I know you like open air."

It took them only a few steps to get to the wide terrace and sit cross-legged on embroidered pillows that were always there.

"Is it still about Nizam?" Dastan began. He rested his chin on one hand and held his foot in the other, looking more like a teenage urchin than this noble, gentle, steady man he became after conquering Alamut. Tus couldn't help smiling, even though the question addressed a matter that was still stuck in his mind like an unresolved chimp of a blade in an inflamed wound.

"Not only this." He began. "Do you know that I often envy you and Garsiv?"

"It'd surprise me if there was nothing you could envy any of us but I believe you want to be more specific" Dastan leant forward slightly, placed his palms on his ankles and his elbows on his thighs. He was the only person Tus knew that could transform into an impersonation of listening. He sat still with a slight, inviting smile and diffused an aura of comfort, hope and warmth. Tus felt small and stupid with his stiff shoulders, insecure simper and absolute inability to stop playing with his tasbeeh.

"Garsiv is all on the outside" He began. "He lets everything go so easily. After any mistake or defeat there comes his display of rage, he goes for a ride or punches a tree and he stays as free as he was before."

"And you" Tus continued. "You somehow always know what is right." He began to feel that his words were escaping him too easily; stones could spring from underneath his feet and eventually form an avalanche that carries everything with it. "I can't remember you making a serious mistake. I wish I had your peace of mind."

The young prince smiled sadly to his thoughts and looked down. The setting sun revived his bronze skin and embellished it with a subtle pattern of shadows cast by his eyelashes and hair. He seemed overwhelmed by what lurked inside him and was reminded to him by this simple sentence. This view evoked a wave of strange, painful heat in Tus's heart.

"Is remorse not the price we pay for wisdom?" Dastan asked bitterly.

These words struck Tus with all the force of the meaning behind them. He finally steadied his gaze at Dastan's eyes that were so full of bittersweet sorrow, understanding and ethereal wisdom that he could not catch his words that followed.

The whole ocean of his feelings for Dastan that he struggled to keep layered and prioritarized suddenly rose up in a turmoil that shattered all order. He felt this vortex inside him ready to overflow and reveal itself with cry, scream or wildest passion he has ever displayed. Tus used all the mind tricks he had learned to bring himself to asking simply:

"What did you say?"

"I paid the price for learning that self-contempt is far worse than any possible consequences of doing what you know is right."

Dastan placed his palm on Tus's hand, drove his fingers deep between his arm and side.

"Wisdom is only a sword. There is no use of it without a brave hand to hold it".

Stealthy caress of his fingertips on Dastan's wrist when he led him somewhere by the hand or placing his hand on the back of Dastan's neck when they spoke or even touching Dastan's collarbone with the back of his palm were something that could pass unnoticed. His intense gaze, short breath and parted lips could not.

"I need you to be brave, Tus. I need you to accept _this_."

The moment between their lips' touching and Dastan's return of the kiss seemed like a small death to Tus. Ice and fire, terror and craving, care and admiration, longing and bitterness, reproach and gratitude that were swirling in him stopped for an instant, and when Dastan's lips moved to invite him deeper and closer everything was revived, struck him with new might and made him cry, cry for long hours in the arms of his Dastan who held him gently and let him let it all go.


End file.
